


but i'd risk it all just to feel alive

by bellawritess



Series: when the light hits the room [3]
Category: 5 Seconds of Summer (Band)
Genre: Alcohol, Angst with a Happy Ending, Getting Back Together, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Kinda?, Love, M/M, Pizza, Songfic, alright luke's in it for like five seconds but whatever, i won't but. shoutout to the vamps for that funky lyric, imagine if i called this fic we could turn a breakup into an outbreak, uhhh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-14
Updated: 2020-11-14
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:15:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27553693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bellawritess/pseuds/bellawritess
Summary: i wish it was a friday night.A voice says, “Michael?” and time stops.It’s not, can’t be, wouldn’t be, in a million years at a million pubs Michael could scour every inch and it wouldneverbe Ashton, because Ashton left, Ashton walked out and Ashton called him saying they should just be friends and (Michael never called him back and) Ashton broke up with him and Ashton never reached out again and Ashton walked away from everything they’d been and everything they had and there’s no way, there’sno waythat Ashton is here, right now, saying Michael’s name, but Michael turns, slowly, and it’s Ashton.
Relationships: Luke Hemmings/Calum Hood, Michael Clifford/Ashton Irwin
Series: when the light hits the room [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2014027
Comments: 2
Kudos: 21





	but i'd risk it all just to feel alive

**Author's Note:**

> part three! this fic is based on friday night, and/so the title's from there as well. (take this one with a grain of salt or. a few lol)
> 
> thank you (of course) to [sam](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yellingatbabylon) for reading this and for being her incredible charming lovable self and i'm running out of ways to say thank you but that doesn't mean i mean it any less <3
> 
> tw for alcohol

They’re supposed to meet at eight, but it’s eight o’clock now, and Michael’s still staring at himself in the mirror.

Behind him, whatever episode of _Parks and Recreation_ he’d left off on is chattering through his laptop speakers. Michael’s no longer listening — he doesn’t care about the show. And he can’t stop staring into the mirror. There’s someone in there, for sure, someone pulling a hand through unruly hair in an attempt to make it look slightly more presentable, someone flipping down the collar of his red flannel shirt, but that someone is unrecognizable. Surely this isn’t him. Surely he’s not getting dressed to go out. Surely he’s not agreed to go to the pub with Luke and Calum. Why would he do that? That implies that he’s ready to stop mourning, to move on from — and he’s not. He’ll never be, probably, and it’s unhealthy to stay attached, but Michael’s never tended towards what’s best for him. 

And he’d promised Harry that he wouldn’t go looking for someone else to hook up with, but at this point it’s all Michael has. It’s not like he’s going to fall in love again, and it’s too familiar of an ache, waking up in an empty bed. He hasn’t picked anyone up since Harry — it had felt a little bit like a lesson learned — but it’s torture waking up alone every morning, falling asleep alone every night. Hasn’t he earned the right to one more meaningless hookup? To lose himself in sex, if nothing else?

A knock at the door startles Michael back into himself. He bites down on his lip, giving himself a hard once-over. It’s nice enough, and that’s the best he can do.

“Sorry,” he says when he opens the door.

Calum and Luke look about as decent as Michael does, which makes Michael feel a little better about wearing a flannel to a pub. The thing is, he’s not supposed to get drunk — another fucking promise; he should stop making those, knows far too well how easy they are to break, how much they hurt when broken — so they’d all decided to look a bit more put-together. Probably some psychological bullshit. Calum likes to draw on psychological bullshit.

If only Harry could come. Then at least Michael could have someone with whom to stand around and pretend to be in love so nobody would try to talk to him. But Harry’s busy tonight, so Michael’s on his own — him and the united front of LukeandCalum.

“No worries,” Calum says, smiling at him. “You ready?”

Michael sighs. “Have I mentioned I don’t want to go?”

“Yup!” Luke says cheerfully.

Well. That’s really all Michael’s got. “Then yeah, I’m ready.”

Calum claps a hand on Michael’s shoulder. “This is gonna be good for you.”

The odds on that being true are laughably slim, but whatever. Nothing else has worked, so he might as well.

* * *

The pub is a good place to be on a Sunday night, if you’re going to be anywhere. It’s lively, and there’s good music playing just quietly enough that you can hold a conversation, but loud enough to fill uncomfortable silences. Michael goes to the bar while Luke and Calum take a table, and when the barman gives him a glance, Michael orders himself a whiskey sour and two pints for Luke and Calum. 

There are other people loitering around the bar, either waiting on drinks or nursing them. Michael scans their faces. They’re mostly in couples or groups, and Michael’s heart feels like it’s made of lead, making its best effort to sink down into his stomach, envy and longing in equal parts burning in his gut when a pair of them kiss, or laugh, or smile. He doesn’t want to be the kind of person whose broken heart makes him bitter, but it looks like that’s where he’s heading.

A voice says, “Michael?” and time stops.

It’s not, can’t be, wouldn’t be, in a million years at a million pubs Michael could scour every inch and it would _never_ be Ashton, because Ashton left, Ashton walked out and Ashton called him saying they should just be friends and (Michael never called him back and) Ashton broke up with him and Ashton never reached out again and Ashton walked away from everything they’d been and everything they had and there’s no way, there’s _no way_ that Ashton is here, right now, saying Michael’s name, but Michael turns, slowly, and it’s Ashton.

Ashton is here, right now, saying Michael’s name.

“What,” Michael stutters, failing to come up with anything better. He clenches his jaw. “Ashton?”

Ashton is staring. It’s not fair of him to stare. It’s not fucking fair, because he could have had all the time in the world to stare at Michael if he’d just _stayed_ , and now he’s staring at Michael like he never wants to stop — Michael knows, because that’s how Ashton _used_ to stare at him, and it’s how he’s always looked at Ashton, too — and Michael wishes he’d just look anywhere else, stop looking so vulnerable, because he’s the one who left.

This moment has played out a million ways in Michael’s mind, but he’s never imagined himself this dumbstruck.

“I didn’t, um,” Ashton says. “I didn’t — I didn’t think you came here.”

“I don’t,” Michael says. He realizes he also can’t stop staring. Ashton can probably read him like a book. He’d always been able to, and any ability Michael had ever had to hide his emotions melts away before Ashton, now more than ever; all the hurt is probably painted in neon colors across his face, all the desperation. There’s a flashing sign over his head that reads _if you tell me you love me right now I’ll say it back_ , and Michael knows that Ashton knows.

“I’m sorry,” Ashton says, shifting on his feet. “I mean. I’m sorry for saying hello. I know that’s poor form. After what I did. But I just. I couldn’t not.”

Michael swallows. “You could’ve.”

Ashton blinks. “Yeah,” he says. “I can take it back, if you want.”

“That’s not fair,” Michael says lowly. He tugs a hand through his hair. “Fuck. What, Ashton? What do you want? Why did — why would you?” 

The question is unintentionally vague, but even Michael’s not sure what he’s asking. Why would Ashton come and say hello now, after everything? Why would Ashton ever leave? 

“What do I…want?” Ashton echoes. He looks nervous. Michael still knows what nervous looks like on Ashton. “I want to…be friends with you, still. But you never called me back. I thought you didn’t want that. I didn’t call again. But.”

 _But I’ve been standing here talking to you for a full minute and you haven’t called me a cunt or told me to fuck myself,_ goes unspoken. _But I can see on your face that you still love me, and wouldn’t you rather have me like this than not at all?_ It’s agony to be stripped this bare, but also so much easier. Michael doesn’t have to say how he feels. Ashton knows.

He’s drinking water, Michael notices. That’s new. The Ashton Michael had known would have had a pint in hand and one ready to go. And there’s something defiantly alive about him. It’s like someone has injected him with — with steroids, or something. Ashton’s not smiling, but his shoulders are back, and he looks strong in a way Michael can’t remember ever seeing. It’s terrifying to think that Ashton has improved in their time apart, while Michael’s stayed exactly the same, or gotten worse. 

The barman slides Michael’s drinks over the bartop, and Michael’s fingers close around the glass instinctively. “You left me a voicemail, Ashton. You left and said goodbye in a voicemail. What — what did you want me to do? Call you back? Tell you it’s okay? It wasn’t. It isn’t.” He’s not sure if it’s anger or anguish bubbling under his skin, but maybe it’s the same. Maybe it doesn’t matter. “Of course I didn’t fucking call you back. I had nothing to say.”

Except he does have something to say, something desperate and forlorn, something useless and painful, _I still love you_ printed on his tongue. He wants it to dissolve like one of those fruit roll-up tongue tattoos, because the alternative is to let it slip, and it’s bad enough that Ashton can read it on his face. Michael can’t say it, not knowing if Ashton will say it back. 

Ashton’s face crumples. “I know,” he says sadly. “I wanted to say more, but you didn’t answer. I can’t — I can’t _excuse_ myself, and I won’t, I don’t want to, I won’t try, I promise,” when Michael opens his mouth to argue, “I just — I just fucking miss you, Michael.” 

It’s jarring, to learn that Ashton is as much of an open book as Michael is certain he himself is. Either that, or all that time spent learning every crease and corner of Ashton’s face hadn’t been for nothing. This is a language Michael still speaks; he couldn’t unlearn it if he tried, and he can still see the sincerity in Ashton’s expression, the one thing he’d always held onto. And there’s something tragic there, too. 

At this point Michael’s not sure what would hurt more: to hear Ashton out, or to give Ashton a taste of his own medicine and walk away.

“Okay,” Michael says. It’s a risk, the biggest one he can ever remember taking, but — fuck, he’s felt on the brink of death for so long, and even though it’s Ashton in front of him, the cause of all his suffering, Michael’s heart is still racing faster than it’s done in ages. For better or for worse, Ashton always makes Michael feel alive, and, shit, he misses Ashton, too, more than he could ever adequately explain. “You want to be friends?” Ashton nods. “We can go somewhere else. I hate it here.”

“Pizza?” Ashton offers hesitantly. He chews his lower lip. “There’s a place — it’s, like, one stop away on the tube.”

“Okay,” Michael says again. He glances across the room, but Calum and Luke are deep in conversation, and Michael doubts if they’ve even looked once to see how he’s faring with the drinks. _Fuck it,_ he thinks. They’re his best friends, and their intentions are good, but if they see Michael leaving with Ashton they’ll try to stop him, and Michael doesn’t need his decisions made for him. 

He lifts his own drink to his lips, drinks half, then sets it down on the bar and pulls out his phone to text Calum. _Drinks are on the bar, im leaving. don’t worry im fine._ “Let’s go,” he tells Ashton, and they leave before Michael can check to see Calum’s reply.

 _(_ ** _calum:_ ** _is that ashton??)_

* * *

The whole time they’re on the underground, Ashton watches Michael.

Michael can’t return his gaze, even if that makes him seem weak, or whatever. He’s used to Ashton looking at him, but not like this, and it builds his hopes up too much, so he stares at the ground instead, deliberately avoiding Ashton’s eyes. He can still feel them, though, the whole way. It leaves Michael feeling shaken.

Finally they get off the tube. Ashton leads them to the pizza place, and Michael sneaks his glances then, updating his mental portfolio just in case — just in case. Ashton looks so fucking good, unfairly good. He’s not even dressed up — in fact, Michael recognizes this shirt as one of the ones he’d always worn to dress _down_ — yet he’s a knockout as always, somehow more beautiful now than every day Michael had known him. Michael had always suspected Ashton of getting more stunning every day, and if that’s the case, Michael has missed a lot of days. Looking at him now feels like looking directly at the sun.

(It hurts so much, but Michael can’t stop.)

It’s not until they’ve both got pizza and have sat down to eat it that Ashton starts talking. “I want to explain myself,” he says plainly. “I’m not making excuses, I promise. And if you don’t want to know, I won’t tell you, but —”

“I want to know,” Michael interrupts. 

Ashton presses his lips together, like he’s wishing now that he hadn’t said it. “Okay,” he says. He sighs and sets his pizza down; Michael suspects it’ll get cold before Ashton eats any of it. _Ashton prefers cold pizza,_ his mind supplies, unsolicited, and Michael bites into his own pizza in protest. “I don’t know where to start. I guess…our last few weeks, I could feel myself getting worse — about, you know, the drinking, and — you said you didn’t mind, and I guess for a while I let you convince me, but by the end even _I_ knew I was bad.” He swallows, looks down at his plate. “I wonder if I should have told you, but I didn’t want to. I didn’t want you to think it was a real issue. I didn’t want you to be worried, but I also…I didn’t want to drag you into it. God, Michael, I loved you so much, you have to understand.” Suddenly Ashton’s looking at Michael again, pleading like it’s a matter of life and death for Michael to remember that Ashton had loved him. Like Michael could ever forget. It wouldn’t have hurt so much to lose Ashton if Michael hadn’t been so secure in the conviction that they had been mutually in love. _Head over heels._ “And I’ve been in that position, of being dragged against my will into the problems of an alcoholic just because it was someone I loved — my mum did it to me, and it was awful. It ruined so much of me for so long. I couldn’t do it to you.” Ashton rests his elbows on the table, pushing his plate towards the middle, and props his chin in his hands. For a minute, the world seems to weigh heavily on his shoulders, and he closes his eyes. It takes everything in Michael not to reach out and brush the hair out of his eyes. Once, he might have, but he can’t now. 

(Ashton _loved_ Michael. Past tense. That’s what he’d said.)

“I knew that if I tried to explain myself to you, you’d hold on,” Ashton says quietly. “I knew you’d want to help, and I knew you couldn’t. I couldn’t have that argument with you. I didn’t want to just leave, I swear to God, Mike, but I couldn’t think of any easier way to do it. I didn’t want to fight.”

Michael feels a thousand protests rise in his throat. “And you never stopped to think about what _I_ wanted?” he says harshly.

Ashton closes his eyes. “I did, though, you know? I knew what you’d want. I just. I had to choose myself.”

“You didn’t even let me _try_ ,” Michael argues. “You didn’t give me a chance. You _guessed_ what I’d say and you made a decision based on some imagined conversation that we never had!”

“I couldn’t do that to you,” Ashton repeats, opening his eyes to Michael’s. “And if I had to go back, I’d do the same thing. I don’t regret leaving to get better. I just wish — I don’t know what I wish. I wish it hadn’t hurt you. I know that was inevitable. I’m sorry. Fuck, I haven’t said I’m sorry, have I?” Ashton shakes his head a bit. “God, I should have started with that, but Michael, I’m so sorry. You have no idea how sorry.”

Michael takes another bite out of his pizza because he needs a moment to gather his words. There had been traces of this in Ashton’s voicemail — _need to sort myself out_ and _have to handle this on my own_ — but Michael hadn’t realized how bad it must have gotten for Ashton. He tries to put himself in Ashton’s shoes. Would he have let Ashton help? Could he have done that to Ashton?

(But could he ever leave Ashton? Surely if Ashton had truly loved Michael, he’d never have left, right? Or is Michael just too selfish, and Ashton selfless?)

“We could have solved it together,” he says calmly. “You didn’t give me a chance, Ashton. And you wouldn’t have done what your mum did. You’re far too conscientious for that. And — fuck, Ashton, you were like _ten_. I’m an adult. I can tell when I’m in a bad situation.”

Ashton exhales. “Yeah,” he says. “That’s true.”

Michael hesitates. “Did you?” he asks. “Get sorted?”

A pause, and then Ashton nods. “Mostly,” he says. “I went home for a little bit, like, to my parents’ house. Talked to my mum. Spent time with Lauren and Harry and everyone. It helped. I didn’t want to be a disappointment to them, you know?” _You could never disappoint them,_ Michael wants to say, because he remembers meeting Lauren and Harry, remembers the stars in their eyes when they’d talked about their older brother, but he holds his tongue. _Did they ask about me?_ he wants to ask, and doesn’t say that, either. Ashton continues, “I’m — making a lot of progress. Not always forward, but I’m a lot better, so. That’s good.”

“Good,” Michael says softly. “I’m proud of you.” He shouldn’t say it, because it just sounds like _I love you,_ but it’s not like Ashton doesn’t know.

Ashton makes an unhappy noise. “Don’t be proud of me. Fuck, I know I’m a dickhead. I didn’t think you’d ever speak to me again. You shouldn’t have. I don’t deserve it.”

Michael swallows. “You know I couldn’t do that.”

This seems to be the wrong thing to say. Ashton just looks more torn. “You can’t still love me,” he says. “After everything.”

“Of course I still love you,” Michael says bluntly. Ashton flinches, and that hurts, maybe more than anything else from tonight. “I promised, Ashton. I wasn’t fucking around.” He doesn’t say _unlike you_ , but from Ashton’s face, he’s heard it loud and clear.

“I wasn’t either,” he says. “I said I’d always love you and I meant that, Michael.”

“When you said it, I’m sure you thought that.”

“No,” Ashton says firmly. “I still do.” And he looks down. “I didn’t — I didn’t want to tell you. I know it’s not fair of me to say that.”

The air in Michael’s throat twists, compresses itself, ties itself into a knot until he nearly chokes on it. “What?” he says dimly. “You don’t still love me. You — you can’t. You walked away. You said — friends.”

“Well,” Ashton says, with a smile that isn’t happy at all, “I didn’t exactly think you’d want to be with me anymore. After I left. I just thought…to have you in my life at all would be better than not to. But you never called me back, and rightly so. I fucked up. I didn’t deserve you. I still don’t.”

“It’s not a question of deserving anyone,” Michael says, incredulous. “You love me? Still?”

Ashton bites his bottom lip. “Of course I still love you,” he says, an echo of Michael moments prior. “I left _because_ I loved you, not because I ever stopped. I don’t know how not to love you.”

All the air leaves Michael’s body, and then it returns. He stares at Ashton. “Then can’t we go back to what we were? Why can’t you be my boyfriend?”

“Michael —”

“Don’t say you don’t deserve it, or whatever it is you think,” Michael says frantically. “I love you, and I’ll never not love you, and you love me, and I forgive you. Please, Ashton. It doesn’t make sense not to be together if this is how we both feel.” Ashton opens his mouth, but Michael barrels on. “I understand why you left. We can talk about it more. I know you want to. I can see you have more to say. It’s not resolved, okay? But we can work it out together, not apart. I don’t want to be friends with you, Ashton, I can’t just be your friend. We’re in love. Please be with me. I know I sound pathetic, but please.”

The silence is deafening, in the moment that there’s silence, before Ashton breathes out and says, “Michael,” so fervently that he might as well have said _I love you_ , and leans across the table to kiss him.

It’s too much for words, the feeling of healing that accompanies the kiss, the way Ashton’s mouth on Michael’s draws all the shattered pieces of his heart back together and seals them with cement. It’s heart-achingly familiar, the kind of familiar that makes Michael sigh with relief, to press his hands to the sides of Ashton’s face just to feel how naturally they fit. Like hearing his favorite song on a bad day, like finally eating that meal he’d been craving, like stepping out of the blazing sun and into the shade; Ashton is the final gear shifting into place, and everything in Michael that had been stagnating since he’d left whirs to life now.

“Thank you,” Michael murmurs against Ashton’s lips. Ashton huffs and kisses Michael again.

“Don’t thank me,” he breathes. “Thank _you_. I’m so sorry. I’m going to make it up to you every single day for the rest of our lives.”

 _Our lives,_ Michael thinks. “Okay,” he says, forehead against Ashton’s. “As long as you’re doing it by my side.”

“Yes, of course. I’m not going anywhere. Fuck. I love you.”

“I love you.” Michael strokes his thumb over Ashton’s cheekbone, then pulls his hand into his lap as Ashton leans back in his seat. “You should come to mine. Once we’ve, you know, finished our clandestine pizza date.”

Ashton smiles, probably wider than the joke warrants. “I would love nothing more,” he says, then frowns. “Fuck, I forgot it’s Sunday. I have work tomorrow.” He sighs. “Wish it was Friday.”

Michael gives him a devious smile. “Skip it,” he says. “Call in sick. They’ll manage without you for a day. Unless you’ve gotten a new job since — you know.”

“I haven’t,” Ashton says. He barely hesitates before a grin like Michael’s steals over his face. “Fuck it. Yeah. They can manage.”

Michael gazes at him, totally shameless in his adoration, lightheaded with anticipation. He doesn’t care what they do, really, when they get back to Michael’s flat; they could just sit on the sofa and watch a film and it would still feel like a gift from heaven itself. 

It’s not perfect, and Michael suspects it’ll be a while before it’s anywhere close, but there’s no one with whom he’d rather solve this problem, or any problem, than Ashton. As long as Michael’s got Ashton by his side, he can handle anything at all.

**Author's Note:**

> ah !! okay !! now we're getting somewhere!! anyway i'm on tumblr [@clumsyclifford](http://clumsyclifford.tumblr.com/) so come say hey if you want! love you byeeee


End file.
